Fish & Chips

Ty turned and put his back to the side of the desk, momentarily out of sight. But as they moved around the room, they would quickly catch sight of him. He peered around the corner and counted three men.

Armen was yanking at his tie in obvious displeasure. Maybe he hated wearing tuxedos as much as Ty did.

“It is stuffy,” Armen muttered to one of his bodyguards, and the man went over to the thermostat to adjust the temperature accordingly.

“You seem ill,” one of the men commented, but his accent was so thick Ty wasn"t quite sure if that was what he said or not. The thug began to walk around the sofa, bringing him alarmingly close to Ty"s hiding place. Ty ducked away, commando crawling behind the desk and peering around the other side. Armen sat on the side of his round bed, the side that didn"t look like the end of the bed, anyway, and he was facing away from Ty. One of the bodyguards had disappeared into the bathroom, and the other was facing away as well, apparently giving his boss some modicum of privacy. Ty took the chance and crawled across the floor to the bed, intending to slide under it before he remembered that the damn thing was on a solid pedestal. He resisted the urge to curse and hugged to the expensive carpet, rolling as close as he could to the side of the bed as he heard one of the three men begin to move around the stateroom.

The comforter almost covered him, but he was still just some dude sprawled on the floor if any of the men decided to walk around to that side of the bed.

He held his breath, waiting.

“I am overtired. Perhaps the expensive Scotch Mr. Porter shared does not agree with me,” Armen muttered finally. “All is well. Please leave me,” he ordered in the same monotone voice he"d always spoken in.

Ty frowned. Mr. Porter was Zane. He had shared his Scotch with Armen? Ty didn"t even try to ponder that one. He listened as the two men muttered obediently, and Ty counted to ten before he heard the door shut behind them.

He remained where he was, frowning heavily and breathing shallowly, straining his ears so he could hear Armen"s movements.

But the man wasn"t moving. He wasn"t even shifting around on the bed. Ty made a slow count of ten again; then he pushed himself up and raised his head over the bed. Armen was still sitting where he"d been, shoulders slumped, head down. As Ty watched, he raised his head and took in a deep, seemingly painful breath.

What the hell was wrong with him?

His breathing became more labored, and he pressed a hand to his chest just before his body seemed to collapse inward and he toppled forward to the floor. Ty shot up and slid over the bed before he thought better of it, landing next to Armen"s prone form on the other side of the bed.

“Armen?” Ty whispered as he put a hand to Armen"s neck.

The man merely gurgled in response.

Ty quickly rolled him over and stretched his arms above his head, taking note of how wrong his body felt. He was completely limp, devoid of any muscular control. Ty gripped his hand, and his fingers were icy cold to the touch. He blinked rapidly up at Ty, but then even the blinking stopped. There were no facial tics or movements, nothing to indicate the man was still alive. His eyes were so dilated that the normally coffee-colored irises were completely black. His entire body was soaked in sweat. Ty bent his head to listen and could hear faltering, rasping breaths. The pulse at his neck was thready, and even as he checked for it, Armen"s body began to twitch all over, the muscles jumping.

Ty certainly wasn"t an expert, but he knew poison when he saw it.

Syncope and paralysis, respiratory distress, dilation of the pupils, profuse perspiration. And one last stuttering breath before the body went completely still.

Ty winced and shook his head as he sat down hard and looked down at Armen"s body helplessly. Ty was familiar with poisons and silent ways of killing. He was almost certain he"d used this one himself a time or two. The culprit was probably a Calabar bean, a native of Africa. Half a bean would be lethal, but to act so quickly it had to have been several, ground up and slipped into something to hide the subtle taste.

Fear gripped him suddenly, so strong it nearly made him sick.

Armen had shared a glass of Scotch with Zane.

Ty left Armen where he"d fallen, knowing the man was past help.

He shot out the balcony door, barely thinking to close it behind him, and he didn"t take as much care as he probably should have as he stood on the railing of the balcony to Armen"s stateroom and swung himself around the partition. But he couldn"t afford to be careful when Zane might already be dying from the same poison that had killed Vartan Armen. It could be treated with atropine with varying success, but the best thing to do was vomit it up. Violently. He had to get to Zane now if he"d had as big a dose as Armen.

He might already be too late.

He landed on the floor of the balcony with a heavy thump, and he barged in through the balcony doors. Luckily they weren"t latched, or he would have merely gone through the glass to get inside.

“Ty!”

There was Zane, striding toward him, looking intent and upset, but breathing and not yet paralyzed. Ty didn"t think, he merely pounced on Zane and hugged him tightly as his heart pounded from fear and adrenaline. He closed his eyes and let himself just soak in the warmth and the scent of Zane"s body next to his. He"d been so panicked he"d almost unconsciously convinced himself he"d never be able to do this again. Zane"s arms were just as tight around him, and after a long moment, he realized Zane was actually talking to him.

“…was no way I could let you know to get out of there,” Zane was saying, lips moving against Ty"s ear and hair.

Ty pulled his head back and looked at Zane almost frantically.

“What? No, shut up—stop talking. Did you drink anything?”

“What? Drink anything? We all had drinks with dinner,” Zane said as he clasped Ty"s upper arms. “Why? You"re practically freaking out.”

“Did you drink your drink, Zane?” Ty nearly shouted, grabbing Zane in the same manner and shaking him violently.

“Jesus! No! What the fuck? I told you I wouldn"t drink anymore if I didn"t absolutely have to!” Zane exclaimed, hurt clear in his voice.

Ty took Zane"s face in his hands and shook his head, struck speechless with relief. He allowed a moment to calm himself before trying to explain, and finally he just came out with, “Armen"s dead.”

Zane"s confusion was clear, but he didn"t snap at Ty about it.

“How?” He stepped back enough to look Ty up and down. “You"re okay?”

Ty shook his head. “I didn"t kill him! He came back from dinner before I got out, talking about not feeling well and having shared your Scotch. Then he dropped dead in his room. Classic poisoning. I thought… are you sure you"re okay? You didn"t even have a sip?”

Zane cupped one of Ty"s cheeks in his palm. “Not even a sip.

Came close, but there was a very distracting attraction out on the dance floor.” Ty hugged him again in relief. Zane huffed quietly but pulled him close for several deep breaths before starting to relax. “As great as this is, we"ve got problems, baby.”

“Big problems,” Ty agreed without letting Zane go. “Armen"s dead because he drank your drink. So not only was he not the one trying to kill us, but someone"s still fucking trying to kill us!” He pulled back and looked Zane over yet again to assure himself that he was fine. He nodded grimly. Zane was right: they had work to do. “And the Bianchis are either guilty, or they"re in danger too.”

“Or dead on the goddamn dining room floor,” Zane said, his voice rough. “Bianchi drinks like a fucking fish.” Then he crossed his arms. “Wait. If Armen drank my drink, and it was the one that was poisoned, then Bianchi would already be down,” he said, looking at his watch. “We had those drinks almost from the time we sat down, and Armen didn"t take mine until a good ten minutes after you left. But he took off really quickly after you. Call it… five minutes onset, maybe fifteen minutes to death?”

Ty closed his eyes and waved his hands through the air. “Stop doing math!” he shouted as he grabbed his jacket and moved around Zane to head for the door. “Come on, we have to find them.”

“I left them in the dining room waiting on the entrees,” Zane said as they practically ran out of the stateroom.

ZANE didn"t even think to slow down as he and Ty ran through the promenade, skidding around Christmas trees and dodging through groups of people. He knew Ty was beside him, and they both knew what had to be done: find the Bianchis. As he swung around the last corner before the restaurant, Zane found himself hoping Lorenzo and Norina were both breathing and innocent. For criminals, they were pleasant company, rather unusual in Zane"s hardcore Miami drug scene experience.

Neither he nor Ty stopped moving when they entered the restaurant. After noting the absence of screaming, EMTs, or any other unusual excitement, Zane immediately scoped out the left side of the restaurant from where he stood inside the door, spotted Bianchi at the bar without any trouble, and cut past the hostess. Zane sensed Ty heading off in the other direction; he knew without asking that he was going after Norina.

Zane reached the bar and set a hand on Bianchi"s shoulder.

“Signor Bianchi?”

Bianchi turned, a wide smile on his face. “Ah, Mr. Porter, you must have hurried to return to us so quickly from checking on your Del.

Scotch?” he asked, holding up a bottle.

“Not yet, thank you,” Zane said smoothly as he reached out to take the proffered flask. He watched Bianchi carefully, looking for a tell. Was the man trying to poison him? “I"ll wait for dessert, I think.”

“A sound idea,” Bianchi said, sounding approving. “Bring it to the table, and we"ll all finish the bottle off.”

Zane nodded slowly, and movement over Bianchi"s shoulder caught his attention. He glanced up to see two men in ill-fitted suits walking along the bar toward them. The men were totally focused on him and Bianchi, and Zane"s instincts went on alert. He"d have to take a risk.

“Listen to me. Armen is dead.”

Bianchi"s eyes instantly went comically wide—it was about as natural a reaction as Zane had ever seen. “Dead?” he asked, aghast.

“Yes. Poisoned,” Zane said, nodding to the bottle.

Bianchi yanked his hand back from it like it had burned him.

“But… but we ordered our drinks from the bar, all of us!” Then Bianchi flinched. “What about my Norina?” he said urgently, sliding off the bar stool and standing. “She had drinks as well!”

Zane took his arm to keep him from hurrying off. “To your right, do you know those men?”

“Men? What men? What do I care about men? My Norina!”

Bianchi babbled. It was pretty damn clear to Zane that the man wasn"t involved in any poisoning.

“Del is with her. Lorenzo,” Zane said, trying to hold the man"s attention as the two men drew closer. To Zane"s eye, they looked like some kind of law enforcement. “The men behind you.”

Bianchi glanced over his shoulder and shook his head. “No. No, I don"t know.”

Zane gripped Bianchi"s arm to hold him in place. “Stand up,” he ordered.

Bianchi glanced at him, looking wild around the eyes, but he obeyed just as the two men stopped in front of them. Their smiles weren"t particularly pleasant looking.

“Signor Bianchi?” the blue suit asked with an obvious Italian accent.

Bianchi cleared his throat nervously and glanced to Zane, who nodded slightly. “Si, sono il signor Bianchi.”

“Deve venire con noi,” the blue suit said flatly.

“Cosa? Perchè? Chi siete?” Bianchi asked. Zane wasn"t sure what they were saying, but he knew what con noi was: come with us.

“Ci sarà tempo dopo per le domande. Ora venga con noi,” the beige suit said as he slid his hand into his jacket.

Zane didn"t hesitate. He surged forward to grab the man"s arm and elbowed him in the throat, sending the man to the floor choking and gasping, too focused on trying to breathe to attempt to draw a weapon. The blue suit grabbed Bianchi, but a harsh kick to the back of the suit"s knee and a left cross shoved him off as people around them gasped and jerked away from their tables, starting a commotion. Zane pulled at Bianchi"s arm to get him moving away from the bar as the beige suit started to climb to his feet.

“That"s what you get for hanging me over a railing, you dick!” Ty called out in triumph over the chaos of the gawking diners.

Hearing that crow, Zane located his partner in the bustling crowd and steered Bianchi in that direction. Bianchi hurried to Norina—Ty was dragging her along with him—and swept her into a hug with a spate of worried Italian. Zane turned to look around them. The milling patrons blocked the way to the door, and he cast around for another exit they could use before the threat or the crew closed in.

“Kitchen,” he said to Ty as he pulled at Bianchi again. “Time to go before the suits get froggy again.”

“Froggy?” Bianchi said blankly.

“Just go!” Zane urged as he pushed the man and his wife ahead of him.

Ty wrapped an arm around Zane and hugged him excitedly. “You knocked that bastard on his ass,” he said gleefully. “God, that was great!”

“What happened to your accent?” Norina demanded of him as she was shuffled along.

“That’s what you"re worried about right now?” Ty asked her incredulously.

“Where"s our gun?” Zane asked.

“You don"t have it?” Ty asked blankly, and Zane swore under his breath as shouts and angry screams from behind them signified that the men who must be Ty"s Dolce and Gabbana were in pursuit. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">